


His eyes sparkled, like yours

by StarberryCupcake



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Magic, Asexual Character, Canon Asexual Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27254620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarberryCupcake/pseuds/StarberryCupcake
Summary: When Martin smiled, Jon realized that he had not considered Martin’s happiness his duty in a long, long time. He did not want his powers to make him happy. He wanted to provide that as a human being.Martin Blackwood has lived a life of solitude and pain, but he is rewarded with a donor, a person with magic who can help him find his happy ending. However, wounds that are not magical are the hardest to heal. Written for Ace Week 2020.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 44
Kudos: 156





	His eyes sparkled, like yours

**Author's Note:**

> Extra notes and specific warnings: the Mature rating is for conversations about sex, intimacy and asexuality. There is also a brief depiction of internalized acephobia. There are descriptions of the aftermath of a battle, including scars, wounds and other canon-compliant things that are briefly mentioned. The character death tagged, also canon-compliant, is Martin's mother. Also, mental health issues are developed to an extent.

It was too late at night when Martin finally reached the shed. 

He was able to hear the howling of the wolves, crying out in succession and cutting the air with their voices. It should have made him walk faster, but he was exhausted. 

It was not a good sign, he considered, that he cared so little about his own safety. 

More persistent than the wolves’ cries, more threatening than the whimpers of their victims, was the voice of his mother, carrying from inside the house. He knew the recitation too well by then, he did not need to hear it all. 

Martin had learned to piece together stray words spoken in his mother’s voice, as if he was connecting stars into constellations, drawing the lines between each one with familiarity. 

Martin’s mother did not speak in constellations, though. She spoke in knives. 

He took off his cloak, battered and discolored from not only his use, but that of his father before him. Perhaps, if he avoided wearing it, he thought, his mother would not see his retreating back as an insult, perhaps her words would not wound so much. 

“Good evening.” 

The voice was not loud but it was sharp, and it cut through Martin’s reverie with an unknown cadence. He was not too proud of the yelp he let out, but he was not proud of many things anyway. 

Martin turned around and found a man sitting on the pile of old crates he had left unsorted for years in a corner of the shed. He was covered in shadows and the lamp Martin had brought was not enough to illuminate him entirely. 

Still, once he heard Martin’s reaction, a green glow illuminated his face, as if intending to make himself known to placate his fear. It was not, Martin noticed, a uniform glow, more like several small ones, like green fireflies that floated around his head. 

But they were not fireflies. They were oblong shapes that seemed to blink at Martin in strange intervals. 

“Who are you?” 

“I apologize for the intrusion, but it seemed safer to expect you here.” The man took an old leather book from inside his dark cape and flipped through it with ease. “Martin Blackwood, is it not?” 

Martin nodded timidly, but the man did not bother to look. He seemed to be asking as a part of a routine rather than expecting Martin to answer. It was as if he just _knew_ who he was. 

“I am here as your donor.”

“My what?”

The man sighed, as if Martin’s questions were exasperating rather than absolutely commonplace in a situation like the one they were in. He seemed shorter, once he was closer, with the lamp illuminating him more and the green glow disappearing faintly. Smaller, but still so stern and sure. 

So unlike Martin. 

“A donor is a magical entity, whether it be a human with magic, a fae or another being appointed, which is given the task to use their power to assist a non-magical human who is both deeply helpless and of enough virtue to be responsible with the use of said power.”

The man seemed to have memorized the whole introduction from some sort of gospel. 

“Like a...fairy godmother?” 

Martin would not have expected the man to be able to frown deeper, but he did. 

“Do not call me that,” he said, “ _ever_.”

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to offend, I just…” 

The words started coming into sense for Martin, slowly dripping and forming a pond of questions and worries in his mind. 

_Helpless_ the man had said. The man had _called_ _him_. 

“There is no need,” Martin lied, blushing, “I am perfectly alright, you have no need to—”

“I have learned about your life before coming here, after being assigned.” The man put the book back inside the wide sleeves of his cloak. “There is no point in lying to me.” 

“Oh...sorry.” 

There was silence then, awkward, cold and uncomfortable. Martin was confused and hesitant, but he was, still, a host in the situation, so he decided to act accordingly. 

“Can I offer you something to drink? Or eat?” He moved towards the door, picking his old cloak back from where he had let it drop after being startled. “I do not have much with me, I’m afraid, I assume you know that, though, you said you did, after all—” 

“I am _fine_ , you don’t have to feed me.” 

“Do you...do donors not eat?”

“What? Of course I eat, I am a _human being_.” 

Martin felt himself blush profusely.

“Oh, sorry I...I just...I thought you said—”

“I am a _human_ with magic,” the man said, and it seemed to Martin that he was stating it with a force that was not completely intended for him. 

It was as if he was also reminding himself of it, Martin thought. 

“What is your name?” 

The man looked at him and frowned. Not in irritation but with calculating doubt. 

“You can call me Archivist, that is my particular area.” 

“Area?”

“Donors are assigned an...alignment, if you will, depending on what our magical talent allows. We are subsequently paired with people with needs that match our specialties.” 

“So, there are other...alignments, aside from yours.” 

“Naturally. Some people need a donor that can provide physical defense in times of violence, others need to get control of others and their surroundings, there are those who need to reach towards the realm of the dead...it depends.” 

“And what _is_ your specialty?” 

“Knowledge.” 

Martin felt as if he knew before he was told. 

“So you can answer my questions?” 

“I am not all-seeing, not completely, but it is my area of expertise, and that which I cannot know, I can learn.” 

“Is that why you were sent?”

“We don’t know what we need to help _with_ , we just follow the needs of our hosts.” The man frowned deeper. “It is you who will have to understand why you need my knowledge.” 

“Alright.” Martin sighed. “It has been a long day and I feel like we are both tired so...I will just ask you one thing tonight, is that alright?” 

“It is my duty.” 

“Still, it should also be your choice.” 

“That is not how it works.”

“If you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to.”

“Just ask your _one_ daily question, Martin Blackwood.” The man seemed tired, exhausted and annoyed. “Ask it so I can leave.” 

Martin had practice with words that wounded. It was _his_ area of expertise. 

“What is your name?” Martin repeated. 

The man’s expression changed for the first time. His frown softened, as if melting away. His eyes, his own, so closed off and vague were defined and deep, staring into Martin’s with unwavering curiosity. 

He took his time to answer, but Martin allowed it with patience. 

“Jonathan,” the man said, and after a beat, he clarified, in a soft voice, “Jon.”

Martin smiled, feeling his heart thundering for the mere mention of a name, for the sole reason of being awarded the closeness of a nickname. Martin had been too lonely for too long. 

“Thank you,” he said, turning away, back to the house of the shouting and the wounds, but taking with him the promise of a nickname, “good night, Jon.” 

He could have sworn that, after closing the door of the shed, leaving him to return to wherever he had come from, he could hear a muffled response, a hesitant and awkward phrase that sounded so much like a _goodnight, Martin_.

* * *

“You are particularly uncaring of my abilities, for someone with the rare opportunity of having a donor.” 

Jon was staring at the infuriating man in front of him, as he shoveled hay from one place to another. 

Martin was smiling, even in the midst of labor. His soft and plump body was moving with an ease Jon did not expect from someone who, for his size, seemed to want to make himself disappear. 

“I did not intend to be uncaring, I just enjoy your company as it is.” 

Jon huffed in annoyance. 

“I will not disappear if you ask me too many questions, that is not how my magic works.” He frowned. “I am starting to wonder why it was _me_ the one assigned to you.” 

“I apologize for boring you.” 

He meant it as a joke but it sounded incredibly self deprecating. Jon felt uncomfortable with that, for reasons he could not describe. 

“My entertainment is of no consequence to my work.” 

It was not the right thing to say, he knew it as soon as he said it, but Jon was unable to speak any differently. He was not meant for this, for people who did not have ready questions, for men who were soft and vulnerable and had dimples when they smiled. 

“You could just talk to me while I work,” Martin offered, looking at the ground, the shovel, anywhere but at Jon, “I would like to hear whatever you want to tell me. You must know so many fascinating things.” 

Martin looked up, hesitantly, timidly, and Jon felt his heart in his throat. He had never been allowed to talk before, not like that. People always wanted specifics, always wanted one big answer that would lead them to a happy ever after. Or what they thought one of those was. 

It had never been up to Jon to curate information, to share what _he_ considered proper. 

Jon did not remember a time when a host had valued his presence more than his knowledge. When he hadn’t been just an open book, but a storyteller. 

“I could tell you about those.” Jon pointed to the far right, as glowing eyes appeared around his head. 

Martin turned and his expression glowed stronger than Jon's magic when he realized that he was pointing at the neighbor’s cows. Jon had noticed Martin had a special fondness for them, and wondered if he hadn’t been able to afford any himself. 

“That would be _wonderful_.” 

Jon spent the afternoon recounting all the information he had on cows, on the specific breed Martin’s neighbor's were, while familiarizing himself with the different types of smiles Martin could make in the span of one conversation. 

When the day was done, Jon decided that if he wanted to read more about cows once he got to the Institute, it was nobody’s business but his. 

* * *

“Did you know that you have a neighbor, not too far from here, who actually spins for a living?” 

Jon was frowning at Martin’s endless pile of work. He attempted to help him disentangle his yarn, all eyes alert, even the ones that floated, and huffed as if voicing the tiredness Martin did not allow himself to have. 

“I am sure she would gladly help you with this if you exchanged something from your garden.” 

Martin did not know if Jon’s knowledge was immediate, the magical summoning of a solution to a problem Martin had not ever voiced, or if he had just searched for help in the nearest village personally. 

Either way, he was touched by the kindness. 

“I am supposed to do it myself.” Martin smiled as he spun with clumsy and slow movements. “Mother says it’s the least I can do.” 

“That is not only false, it is also inconvenient.” Jon dropped the yarn he had gathered and stood. 

His stature was short and his countenance small compared to Martin’s, but there was such authority in his demeanor that Martin sometimes flinched in anticipation of a reprimand. 

Which was what he apparently had done then, because Jon softened immediately. 

“You have a wonderful garden, you are good at growing things, it is not unfair to trade a piece of that with someone for their work.” Jon reached out, touching Martin’s calloused and reddened hands. “Sasha is good, she will help you.” 

Martin wondered again whether Jon just _knew_ that or if he actually had met this Sasha, while looking for a solution to a problem Martin did not want to admit having. 

“What if my mother asks?” 

Jon frowned, but it was not in annoyance. It was a troubled, conflicted expression. 

“I...I can’t intercede between you and her, it is not my place to do so…” Jon sighed, resigned. “But I can be there for you...as a friend.” 

Martin dropped what he was doing, ruining the work he had achieved in the process. 

“A...a friend.” 

“Yes, well...I mean, it’s not...I’ve never been friends with a host before but I...I gather it’s not a bad thing...I know donors who’ve become friends with their hosts...I could introduce you some day.” 

Jon was rambling but Martin had never cared about that at all. 

“I would...I’d love to be your friend, Jon.” Martin smiled so brightly it hurt his face. “And I’d love to meet Sasha, the magical spinning lady.”

“She’s not magical, Martin.”

“If she can do _this_ right,” Martin said, gesturing to the mess around him, “then she _is_ magical.”

Jon’s soft laughter was bright and warm and it would be the thing keeping him together when facing his mother later that night, as he announced his new trading deal with Sasha, a kind young lady from the village, and Tim, the charismatic salesman that was her suitor.

* * *

“So, how did you know Georgie and Melanie?” 

Jon felt himself blushing profusely as they walked through the fields back to Martin's home. He hoped that the shadows of the dusk covered his expression, his avoidance, his hesitation. 

“You have a very keen habit of making all your questions about me,” Jon deflected, embarrassed. 

He realized, looking at Martin’s back, the hunch in his posture, the retreat of his countenance, that it had been the wrong thing to say yet again. 

Jon had never been so aware of how prone he was to saying the _wrong_ thing until he met Martin. He thought his powers made it impossible for him to be wrong, but that had been naïve, reductive and foolish. 

There was more than theoretical knowledge. He had never tried to learn about empathy, not as keenly as he had since he met Martin. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Martin’s words were familiar, but they hurt Jon more and more as time went by, as he remained by his side. 

This was, by far, the most unsuccessful pairing he had been in. It had never taken him this long to make a host happy, to help them find their way. 

But, at the same time, this was his favorite. And he hurt thinking that someday Martin would move on without him. 

Was it selfish, then, that he did not try hard enough? That he did not do as much as he could to finish the assignment? Was he compromising Martin’s happiness, his well-deserved joy, for his own gain? 

Was Jon even _human_ if he did that? 

“No, _I_ am sorry.” Jon meant it for many things, but chose to just use it for their current conversation, for the time being. 

He stopped and veered towards a fallen log, sitting down and patting the vacant space on his right in silent invitation. 

Martin looked hesitant, as if he was being invited to some magical opportunity he was not worthy of. He sat, as far as the log allowed him to. Jon recognized by then that the distance was not, as he had previously thought, based on fear. He was nervous, as he would with any other human being, any person that he was developing closeness to. 

Jon inched closer. Not enough to touch, and he was _yearning_ for it, but close enough that, if Martin wanted, he could reach back. 

“I actually knew Georgie first.” Jon let go of his embarrassment, his petty hesitation and pride, and decided to tell Martin what he had asked. 

It was his duty, after all. 

“You did?” 

“Yes we...we were a couple, once.” 

“Oh.” 

Martin was looking resolutely anywhere but at him. 

“We knew each other before I was appointed for the first time, before I entered the Institute, and we were romantically involved for a while.” 

It was clearly not what Martin had expected him to share, but he nodded jerkily. 

“Thank you for telling me, sorry that it was something personal, I would not have asked had I known—” 

“I _want_ to tell you, Martin.” Jon sighed, tired with his own inability to speak whenever it was most needed, whenever he most required it, whenever it had to do with his _feelings_. 

Martin turned, then, and looked at him for the first time. He seemed hesitant still, but had recognized that there was something in Jon that spoke of old sadness and doubt. And when Martin understood that someone needed help, he acted. 

Martin was a paladin when it came to defending others. He was a knight, kind and warm and Jon wondered what he could offer someone so good to make him happy. 

“We were too different, it turns out. We grew up into different people. Melanie became her donor some time after we separated, and we found each other again through her. Melanie does not like me much,” Jon said with a chuckle, “but she is good to Georgie and will keep her safe.” 

“They fell in love after she was her donor?” Martin sounded surprised. “I thought...I thought you had introduced them or something like that.” 

“Oh no, they didn’t need me to find each other.” Jon smiled. “Sometimes it happens, sometimes the host and the donor just...connect, I guess.” 

And there it was. 

The selfish reason why Jon wanted Martin to meet them. He had made it seem as if it was to show that camaraderie between hosts and donors was not uncommon, to put Martin at ease and let him know that he was not taking advantage of Jon’s presence. 

But the truth was that it had been for Jon. He wanted to remind himself that falling in love with your host was alright. He wanted Martin to know that. He wanted to know if Martin _cared_ at all about it. 

“Are you alright?” Martin asked, and wasn’t that a loaded question? “Was it too difficult? To see your former partner with somebody else?” 

Jon smiled. Despite himself, despite his doubts, he smiled. Because it was so _Martin_ to be understanding of Jon’s feelings, to see them even when Jon would rather hide them, and yet not being able to see how Jon felt about him. 

“We both moved on,” Jon said, still smiling, “she found someone who fit her better, who went in her same direction.” 

Jon reached, slowly, hesitantly, and brushed Martin’s hand with his own. 

“I hope I can do the same.” 

When he looked up, Martin’s eyes were glossy and filled with hope. With a yearning that reflected Jon’s own. He brushed Jon’s hand as well, too timid yet to take his hand, to lace their fingers. 

When Martin smiled, Jon realized that he had not considered Martin’s happiness his _duty_ in a long, long time. He did not want his powers to make him happy. He wanted to provide that as a _human being_.

* * *

It had been months. Months in which Martin withdrew and pretended to be alright. Pretended to be holding it together. 

It had been months since a woman had knocked on Martin’s door, introduced herself as a knight of the Royal Guard and informed Martin that his donor was out of commission, hurt in battle. 

A battle Jon had never mentioned. A quest Jon had never told him about. 

Basira, the knight, had explained that it was customary to inform the hosts whose donors had been wounded or killed in battle. She had explained that Jon was not dead but had been greatly injured. That he was being taken care of. 

That he was not waking up. 

Martin saw in Basira a similar burden as the one he carried. He found out that she too had a donor who had been wounded in battle, recuperating slowly. Not the same type as Melanie, and also not the same as Jon, Basira’s donor was a warrior. She had woken up but she seemed to have lost her magical abilities. Basira did not know how to help her. 

Was a host _able_ to help a donor? Basira wondered out loud as she recalled. Martin had asked himself the same thing many, many times. 

Martin also found out that Basira’s donor, Daisy as she called her, _had_ told her about the battle. In fact, they had fought _together_. He also found out that Tim, Sasha’s suitor, had been involved in it as well, in some twist of fate Martin was too tired to thread together. 

Tim and Basira were non-magical humans. Like Martin. 

But Martin had not been a part of it. He had not been told. 

He had continued with his daily life, waiting for Jon to appear, listening to his mother, and felt more and more like he had been only a side-note in the big scroll of Jon’s magical life. Only when an unknown knight came knocking, he learned the truth. 

He saw Georgie in the village, and she asked him how he was doing, knowing full well about Jon through Melanie, probably knowing more than Martin himself did. Sasha, who was taking care of Tim, also seemed to understand more about what had happened than Martin did. She explained what she could while Martin was delivering his produce, free of trade until Sasha and Tim could get back on their feet once again. 

Martin helped Sasha with her chores, since Tim was too weak to help her. He talked with Basira, who appeared in Martin’s house regularly for tea and to talk about Daisy, since she felt that Martin was the only one who could understand her powerlessness. Martin helped Georgie with produce as well, when he found out that Melanie had been blinded in battle and they needed time to adjust. 

Martin helped other people, while his mother demanded work, until her voice stopped abruptly one afternoon. 

After Martin’s mother died, the house was silent. 

For the first time in decades, there was not a voice cutting the air with violence and nagging, with demands and chores. 

And Martin started drowning in the silence, as if it was made of waves. A tide of silent noise which licked his feet, his ankles, and swallowed him whole at the end of every day. 

Martin helped others but he came back home to himself. Martin helped others but he had no-one anymore. 

And it was just as well. 

He wondered if he would have been a good donor, had he been born magical. If his disposition to care about others and his diligence, instead of making him a nuisance, would have made him a good donor, had he been born with any ability to provide magical aid. 

But he was not magical or special. 

And he was reminded of that the day a handsome man that smelled like darkness knocked on his door. 

His name was Oliver, he said, and he informed him that he had helped his donor come back. That he had pulled Jon back into the realm of the living, as he said. It was one of his talents, it seemed. 

“I wanted to let you know, considering you are still his host, that I did my part and he will be returning to his duties shortly.” 

The man had a smirk on his face, flirty and playful, and Martin did not quite understand what was so funny about any of it. 

“He does not have to, if he would rather not.” Martin’s response was colder than it should have, but he had been getting cold in the waves of the silence. 

“Well, that is between you and him, I suppose.” The man winked and turned to leave. “I have to go back to my own host now, but I wanted to bring the good news myself, I rarely have _good_ news to give.” 

Martin saw the donor join a young man with ink in his skin and haunting eyes. They left, walking together, and Martin felt the tide of solitude engulf him as he closed the door and retreated back inside.

* * *

Jon decided to knock on the door. 

He decided against waiting for him in the fields, crossing him in the village, against waiting at his front door until he came back from a walk. 

He had to knock on his door like a normal human being and ask if he would be willing to let him explain. To apologize. 

For what? Jon was not sure of. Everything. Most of it. 

Getting hurt had not been his fault _entirely_ , but he probably should have mentioned the battle. He could have told Martin about his fears, about the danger. He was just scared of being selfish. 

He always felt so selfish around Martin, as if he was using him, taking from him that kindness and care and overall lovely aura of his, taking advantage of his place as a donor to talk about himself and yearn for his closeness and…

Jon had not been able to articulate what he wanted before he left. Actually, he had been able, just not brave enough. 

And then it was easier to ask others, others who had seen Martin. To ask how he was doing, rather than go find him first. And the looks on people’s faces were enough to tell Jon that his absence had hurt deep. 

His absence and his silence. 

For someone who talked as much as Jon did, who talked so much about the things he knew, the things he learned, he was very willing to silence the things he _felt_. 

The knock sounded hollow and vacant, but it was nothing compared to the sight of a Martin without light. 

He seemed tired, cold and distant, and his eyes, although surprised to see him, were not gleaming with the same anticipation and joy they used to. 

And the house. The house was so _quiet_. 

“Jon.” 

“ _Martin_ .” Jon’s voice was yearning and pleading and _desperate_ , but he did not care anymore about hiding it. “Martin, I missed you _so much_.” 

Something broke in Martin, at that. Something hurt, like an icicle melting from his heart, but it was not enough. 

“You don’t have to come back, Jon.” Martin’s voice was monotone, lacking that playful inflection, that sweet musicality it always had. “You can go and find another host that is easier to help.” 

Martin was on his way to closing the door, going back to the cold wet loneliness inside his walls. 

“I do not want to be your donor anymore.” 

Jon’s words stopped him. The hand on the door was shaking, his eyes misty and watery, and Jon had never wanted to heal someone more than he did right then. He had never been good at that, but he could try. 

“I don’t...I don’t want to be with you out of duty or assignment, Martin, I…” 

Jon reached out but Martin recoiled, as if touch was too much at the moment. 

“I love you, Martin Blackwood.” 

Jon had never been more certain of a truth in all his years as an Archivist, in all his life as a human. 

“I love you and I will stay, until you tell me to leave,” Jon stated, certain, “until you are tired of me and tell me you don’t want me anymore and you _mean_ it. But not as a donor, as a _person_.” 

There were tears in Martin’s eyes, but they looked warmer than they had since he had opened the door. 

“Suit yourself,” Martin said, closing the door, but he did not tell him to leave. 

Jon wished this was a magical curse. That by just telling Martin that he loved him, he would cure him and save him and they would live happily ever after. 

But human harm was more powerful than any magical type of wound. It could only heal with time, with time and care and warmth. Jon had never been good at it, at the human side of him, at helping without his magic. 

But, for Martin, he was willing to try.

* * *

It had been three months and Jon had never left. 

At first, Martin was not ready to acknowledge him. Jon saw him go through his day, through his work in the garden. He noticed how Martin did not leave his home anymore, how he had taken the end of autumn to retreat and not reach out. 

Sasha and Tim were back on their feet and they would wait for Martin’s produce to be ready again. Georgie and Melanie were doing well, Melanie had even started training again the last time Martin had seen them. Basira and Daisy had moved somewhere far, retreated to where Daisy could heal from wounds that were not entirely physical. 

Martin took this as an excuse to hide inside. He said to himself that it was good to have time of his own, to write and to work and prepare the garden for the winter. He said to himself that nobody would look for him if he did not appear in the village as often, if he did not visit as often. 

And he became comfortable in the numbness of solitude. He told himself that it was good. That it was alright. 

But then Jon appeared.

Jon had a habit of disappearing when he was expected and appearing when he was not. So Martin expected. He expected him to leave. 

But he did not. 

He followed Martin around, content with just _being there_ , respecting Martin’s distance, talking briefly, asking little. 

He asked about his mother once, hesitantly, and Martin told him, in a wobbly voice. Martin noticed that he wanted to reach out, but he was not ready for that. And Jon respected it. 

He also said it a lot. That he loved him. Expecting nothing, asking for nothing in return. Just as he would say anything else, any other truth he knew. 

_I love you_ , he said, before leaving for the night. 

_I love you_ , he said, as he saw Martin sobbing quietly when removing the last of his mother’s things from the house. 

_I love you_ , he said, as he cooked him dinner, in a domestic and comfortable place he had made for himself in his house, _and I am so sorry_. 

“It isn’t just you, Jon,” Martin admitted one evening, after dinner, after another apology. 

“I didn’t want to worry you, I didn’t think...I was wrong in not trusting you, I hurt you and I am sorry.” 

“I know, I am _not_ angry, not anymore.” 

“I just...I was afraid, Martin. I still am.” 

“Afraid of what?” 

It seemed unbelievable, Martin considered, for Jon to be afraid, for Jon to be insecure. That was Martin’s specialty, _his_ _alignment_ , he thought. 

“I felt I was taking advantage of you...I wanted...I cared so much and I was falling in love and I was scared that I was taking away your chance to be happy because I wanted to be beside you longer.” 

Martin chuckled, and it was weak and pitiful but it was the first time he had done so in _too long_. 

“Jon...you had already made me happy. I was happy _with you_.” 

Jon was startled. Martin reveled a bit in the feeling of, for once, surprising the Archivist. 

“So maybe it was _me_ who was taking advantage.” Martin sighed. “I should have told you ‘you have made me happy, Archivist, now you can move on, find another host’, but then I would not be happy anymore, and where would that leave us?” 

Martin scratched his neck, uncomfortable. 

“I had been in love with you for so long and then you disappeared and I thought maybe...I thought it was my fault, my _punishment_.” Martin felt the tears in his cheeks but could not stop them from falling. “I thought it was my punishment for having kept you for so long.” 

Martin did not dare to look at Jon. He did not want to see the realization in his eyes, he did not want to hear the moment in which he decided to take back every ‘I love you’ that he had offered. 

“I kept thinking, you know, that if we had met in any other circumstances, if you had not been _forced_ to be beside me, you would have never been my friend.” 

He could hear it again, the gnawing silence of his house, the sea storm of nothingness that flooded his every room after his mother died. Or maybe since before even, since before all of that. Maybe there had always been a bit of sea foam in Martin’s lonely soul. 

Martin felt Jon’s hands in his clenched fists, found the man kneeling in front of him. His skin was scarred after the battle, scarred beyond repair, marks of awful magical entities crossing his dark skin and painting a map of survival. 

Jon’s eyes, his own, the human ones, were locked to his, looking incessantly for the piece of Martin that he could pull back, rescue from the sea of silence. 

“I was a jerk when I met you.” Jon’s voice was calming, familiar. “Yet it took me such little time to become fond of you, and even less time to fall in love. You deserve better than what I gave you, but not because some magical power deems you virtuous of it.” 

Jon’s hand, scarred but firm, caressed Martin’s cheek, as if it could infuse him with the warmth that used to be his at some point. 

“You are a good person, Martin Blackwood. You are a kind, selfless, wonderful person, and I want to make you happy, not because I am assigned but because your happiness means the world to me.” 

“Because you love me.” Martin whispered, finally feeling like he could understand the phrase. 

“Because I love you.” 

“And what happens when I’m happy?” Martin asked, afraid of being alone again. “Will you leave? Move on to another host?” 

Jon smiled. 

“I could do one of two things, I assume. Either continue working as a donor and come back to you every day after work is done. Or give up my job and attempt to learn how to shovel hay properly.” 

Martin chuckled at that, more intently than he had before. 

“Either way, I’m not going anywhere. Unless you want me to.” 

It was again the same request, the same leeway. Jon had remained because Martin had not pushed him away and he was willing to let go if Martin so much as asked it. 

“I never wanted anything else than your permanence, really,” Martin said, weakly, “all I wanted was to get to know you, Jon.” 

And it seemed that, finally, Jon understood. 

Martin’s wounds were not able to be healed by a magical spell or a wish. No donor power could be able to mend him whole. But he could have help. He was allowed to have someone beside him to care for him, as much as he himself cared. 

He was allowed to love. And it was a start. 

* * *

“You are in my way, Martin.” 

Jon saw the man turn from his place on the floor, adding more wood to the fireplace. They had both been sitting in the new rug that Sasha had made for Martin during his time of absence. 

Jon was supposed to get a book from the pile on Martin’s left, but Martin’s soft and plump and wonderful self was blocking his access and Jon was not willing to stand so that he could take it. 

“Oh, sorry, I will just—” 

But as soon as Martin’s lap was accessible, Jon considered there were other priorities. He climbed there and crossed his arms behind Martin’s head, hiding his face in the crook of his neck. 

“Oh no,” Jon said softly, “you _are_ in my way, how inconvenient.” 

Martin chuckled, nervously but without fear and not pulling back. His hands went tentatively around Jon’s frame. 

“Is this alright?” Martin asked, as if it had been him who initiated it. 

Jon kissed Martin’s neck in response. 

“Is it alright with you?” Jon asked, caressing Martin’s hair. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Martin said, with a smile in his voice, “of course it is.” 

Jon pulled back slightly to look at Martin’s face. He was flushed and nervous but his eyes were shining and the trace of fog that had caught him had vanished, for the most part. It still resurfaced sometimes, when he remembered his mother, when he felt he was not good enough, when he had to let Jon go for some periods of time to do his magical quests. 

It was a sea, and the tide sometimes came up. But then, it also left. Martin had learned to see it come and go. 

Martin was helping himself and Jon was there to hold his hand throughout. It was not a magical donor intervention, it was long and sad and draining, but it was the most rewarding help he had ever given anyone. 

It was the most _human_ help. And he felt, finally, human enough to do it. 

“Listen, I...I know we have been... _I_ have been...increasingly _affectionate_ and I thought I should talk to you about what I want...or what I _don’t_.” 

Jon dreaded the conversation, he had done it before and, no matter the circumstances, it was not usual for it to end well. To end with him _unharmed_. 

“Alright…” Martin offered, confused. 

It should be easy, Jon thought. As easy as when he had seen Martin for the first time and told him about what a donor was. He knew his feelings as well as he knew his job. It should be easy. 

Yet it was not. 

“I want to be with you, Martin. Romantically, I mean.” 

“I...I gathered that.” 

“And I love you and want to show you that I do, and I really enjoy being affectionate with you.” 

“I like that too.”

“Oh, good.” Jon flushed, drawing his arms from Martin’s neck and putting some distance between them. “Good, yes, I...that _is_ good.” 

“Is it?” Martin frowned. “Because it seems to me that there is something bothering you.” 

Jon looked down, embarrassed and afraid. He could not do this. 

“Jon, you can tell me, you know?” Martin reached out but did not touch his hand, just offered his palm. “I will listen.” 

Jon took it. He reached out, took Martin’s hand, and decided that it was all or nothing. With Martin, _for_ Martin, it was all or nothing and it had always been. 

“I cannot...satisfy you in ways that you...probably expect from a relationship of this kind.” 

Martin frowned, confused, and tilted his head like some adorable puppy. Jon wanted to hug him again. 

“I am afraid I don’t quite follow.” 

Jon sighed, cursing himself inwardly. 

“I am good with hugs and cuddles and I would...I would very much like to kiss you, but...I do not...I do not enjoy what lies _beyond_.” 

Jon could see the moment in which Martin understood. His cheeks lighted up like beacons and his eyes went wide in a way that would have been comical had Jon not been terrified out of his mind. 

“Oh.” 

“Yes. And before you ask, _no_ , it is _not_ a ‘donor’ thing, it is very much a _human_ thing, and _no_ there is nothing _wrong_ with me or my anatomy or my mental faculties and _no_ , I do _not_ need to be ‘proved wrong’ or ‘get a better experience’ and _no_ , it is _most definitely not_ a choice or some sort of celibacy promise whatsoever.” 

Jon stood up, resolved and serious, walking around the room with his fists clenched and responding to all the things he had ever been asked before in his life. 

“I do not need to have a ‘good incentive’, I do not feel attracted in that capacity to anyone, and my lack of attraction in that manner does _not_ imply I do not feel other forms of attraction nor is it intended to hurt your self esteem or make you feel undesirable, but it also does _not_ mean I am myself unable to _feel_ in other ways and—” 

“Jon—” 

“I am not intending to find a magical ‘cure’ for something I do not consider an ailment, I do not want anyone to prove me ‘wrong’, and the fact that I am not inclined in that direction nor am I yearning to take your clothes off does not diminish my love for you—”

“Jon!” 

At that, Jon stopped ranting. He realized that he had been pacing back and forth and Martin had stood up, far enough to allow him room but close enough to look interested in the conversation and not repelled by what Jon had admitted to. 

He also noticed that none of the things he had said, none of the answers he had given, had been responses to Martin. None of the voices he had been hearing, making him defend himself, had been Martin’s. 

“Can I speak?” Martin asked, smiling. 

Jon found himself out of words. He nodded. 

“I understand. Thank you for trusting me with that.” 

Jon was confused. He did not quite gather why Martin should be _thankful_. 

“Is it not…” Jon began, and found that his voice was quite tired, “is it not something to be... _disappointed_ by? Rather than grateful?” 

Martin frowned severely. 

“Jon, you just told me something very important to you, something you were scared would harm our bond. It was brave and courageous and I should be thankful that you did that, because you did it out of love.” 

It sounded all so sensible when Martin said it. It sounded so _natural_. 

“I would very much enjoy kissing you, Jon.” Martin walked closer. “And cuddling and hugging and whichever other things you feel comfortable with. If you are not interested in other endeavors, then that is alright as well. That is also part of you. And I love _you_.” 

It was the first time that Martin said it in a present tense. Jon did not expect it to happen _after_ he told him his truth. 

“You do?” 

Martin reached out, offering his hand again, and once Jon took it, he drew him in slowly so that Jon’s head could rest in Martin’s chest. 

“I do. _Of course_ I do.” 

“This is not how things normally go.” Jon circled Martin’s neck with his arms. “Donors use _magic_ to help their hosts and hosts are not meant to _help_ their donors love their own _humanity_.” 

“And you used to think that we were not ideally paired.” 

Jon looked up and found Martin’s eyes. 

“I have always had the gut feeling that maybe there had been a...paperwork confusion.” 

“Oh?” 

“I have known it since the first time we spoke. I had the gnawing sensation, the magical pull to look and check.” 

“And?” 

“I never did.” Jon closed his eyes. “I was afraid it had been a confusion, and that they would make me leave you. So I went along with it.” 

Martin kissed Jon’s forehead carefully. 

“So we might have not even been meant to be?” 

Jon reached up, rubbing his nose against Martin’s. 

“I think we managed very well by ourselves,” Jon responded as he smirked. 

When he kissed him, Martin’s lips were soft and warm, like all of him. They were all-encompassing and rich and uniquely _Martin_. Jon retreated, frowning slightly and could see the confusion in Martin’s eyes. 

“We should go back to the rug, you are _unfairly_ tall.” 

Martin laughed and Jon kissed the sound, chasing it all the way to the rug and the warmth of the fireplace.

* * *

Mornings during the spring used to be dreaded by Martin. 

He woke up with his mother’s voice rather than the call of his neighbor’s animals. He had a list of chores engraved in the wounds of his hands, the weight upon his shoulders and the cold feeling of lonely cooking for him and his mother, who would criticize him and remind him why he was a failure. 

Mornings during the spring had not been that way for two years, and he still marveled at the novelty of waking up to the prospect of happiness. 

The chores had not changed, the hour had not changed, but it all felt different when you had purpose, when you had friends, when you had dreams and people to share them with. 

Collecting his vegetables with care was different, ever since he spent time thinking of which ones Sasha would like most, and which ones Tim would try to steal for himself under her watch. 

Preparing the fields was different, when he thought about the two young cows he was going to receive soon, when his neighbor's gave birth. 

Making jam was different, when he was thinking about which ones Basira would enjoy the most, and which ones Melanie was going to prefer best. 

Waking up was different when Jon’s unruly hair was spread over him like a blanket. 

“Good morning,” Martin said, a smile on his face even before he opened his eyes. 

Jon groaned, still unable to become what he characterized as a ‘morning person’, even after two years of shared domesticity. 

“We do this every week day, love, you should not be surprised.” 

Martin tried to move slowly, so that he could leave Jon to rest for longer, but found himself trapped in his arms. Jon could not encompass him fully, but he was very intent on keeping him in place. 

“Oh no,” Martin said, still smiling, “a magical entity has me trapped, what will I do?” 

At that, Jon finally moved, hovering over Martin, his long graying hair cascading down in waves. 

“Maybe a kiss could break the spell?” Jon offered, all soft edges and lazy warmth. 

Martin caressed Jon’s cheek fondly. 

“I might as well try, then.” 

Jon’s lips met him halfway, lazy and slow, eager in his sleepiness. 

“Well?” Martin managed after pulling back. 

Jon kept his eyes closed, shivering slightly. 

“I am afraid that, in this case, the effect has been quite opposite.” 

“I could try again.” Martin laughed. 

“Yes.” Jon kissed Martin’s nose, his cheek, his jaw. “It is your own kind of magic, after all.”

When Martin kissed him again, he realized that he finally believed in his own magic too.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the fic comes from The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen, because it's ace week so he _had_ to be featured in some capacity. 
> 
> I will not bore you with neither my academic knowledge on fairy tale theory nor with my headcanons for this universe, but I want to clarify that the word "donor" here is used as a reference to Vladimir Propp's seven archetypes in folktales, even though it isn't an actual word in fairy tales themselves. Many avatars from canon are donors here and their donor alignment and powers reflect the canon entity they're aligned with. 
> 
> I am aroace, so Jon's rants are very much a reflection of my own experience (which doesn't mean it has to be everyone's), coupled with a romantic side I tried my best to reflect as I could. I hope that someone out there finds the idea of ace-led fairy tales as likeable as I do. Martin's experience with self isolation and mental health is also based on my personal experience and does not intend to be all-encompassing. The fact that there is magic in a story shouldn't stop mental health to be developed as a non-linear journey that takes time to heal, I think. Also, as a fat person, Martin's description in canon made me feel very seen, I don't make a point of describing his body much here because it's not at all an element that has any relevance plot-wise, but having plus size characters in media is always appreciated so I tried to add a sprinkle of that in, I hope that's ok. 
> 
> I am incredibly scared of posting this because this fandom intimidates me immensely but I can't complain about lack of ace fics if I don't put some of my own work to provide it. Especially in Ace Week. So, even though this may be a terrible idea for many reasons, it's worth the shot, I think. I hope someone out there enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> I am not a native English speaker, I'm just doing my best, so I apologize for any issues in my grammar or punctuation. 
> 
> If you read this, thank you so much for your time, and to all fellow aces, wherever you are on the spectrum, as well as anyone out there going through a rough time with their mental health journey, I send you all my love and know that you're not alone ♥


End file.
